Nara spent many hours worrying about the fracture in their family. Not only was she unmarried, no one was courting her, not even the sons of the elite who claimed to be open-minded about her education. In practice even the most liberal men preferred a traditional wife, which was surely why the educated Ara had risked a relationship with a Soviet soldier. No one else would fall in love with her. The same was surely true for Nara. The difference was that she’d resigned herself to this fate.
Nara could have made the decision to split with her family and move out. However, no matter what their difficulties, she loved her parents and understood that moving out might mean losing them altogether. They would not visit her. She couldn’t accept there wasn’t a compromise. Her father had compromised before: his career was founded upon it. Compromise was the country’s future. The new Afghan president understood that. He’d compromised on the issue of faith. Many enemies of the State had claimed it was impossible to work for the People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan while remaining a Muslim. They argued Communism meant bombing mosques and burning the Qur’an. The new president had taken a conciliatory approach towards Islam. Even with regards to the inflammatory issue of female education, the argument made in its defence had been drawn from scripture, quoting the passage in the Qur’an that described the creation of man and woman:
A single cell and from it created its mate, and from the two
of them dispersed men and women in multitude.
There was a religious foundation to ideas of equality. Nara needed to somehow communicate this with her parents. Her faith might take a different form to the worship they recognized but it was just as strong. She considered her family a test model, a microcosm for the country. If she gave up on her family how could she work towards uniting the country?
Nara got into bed, too tired to read or think any more. She wanted to sleep, exhausted by the day’s events. She was about to blow out the lamp when she heard a noise. Her parents and brothers weren’t at home. They’d gone to visit family in the countryside outside Kabul, a family that Nara had no relationship with. The extended family embodied the worst side of tradition and they would not accept her even as their guest. She crouched on her bed and opened the window. The property had been built on a steep rise of hillside. They lived in the top-floor apartment. She peered into the alley, the hiding place for her textbooks. There was nothing to see. She heard the noise again, a creaking sound. It was coming from inside the apartment.
She got out of bed, leaving her room, bare feet moving silently towards the front door. Their apartment was reached by a narrow brick stairway. Whenever anyone climbed the stairs the timber doorframe creaked. Usually Nara felt no fear even when she alone. There was a security gate at the bottom of the stairwayer frid of thick steel bars. The gate was padlocked. There was no way an intruder could reach the front door. Nara stepped forward, ear pressed against the timber. She waited.
Whether by the force of the door smashing, or out of shock, Nara fell to the floor, looking up to see two men enter the apartment, kicking aside the remains of the timber frame. Nara’s body reacted faster than her thoughts: she was up on her feet, scrambling towards the bedroom. One of the men knocked her to the ground. Clawing her way out from under his body, she reached the bedroom. As she got to her knees, the second man kicked her. The pain was unlike any she’d experienced before, a detonation inside her stomach. She collapsed and curled up into a ball, struggling for breath.
The man stared down at her with hate-filled eyes, a stranger who spoke with so much anger in his voice it was as if he’d known her personally.
— You betrayed your country.
While he spoke the other man dropped onto Nara, pinning her to the floor. He sat on her chest, his weight forcing the breath out of her lungs. Handed her notebooks, he proceeded to rip them apart, the pages of neat text, the quotes by Stalin, the lessons taught by Leo Demidov, shredded and falling about her face. With a fistful of paper, he tried to force the fragments into her mouth. She pressed her lips shut. The man responded by lifting himself up from her stomach, relieving the pressure, before dropping back down. As she gasped he shoved the paper inside her mouth, his knuckles on her teeth, filling her mouth. The man standing over them commented:
— You wanted an education . . .
Nara could not breathe. She scratched at the man’s face. He slapped her hands away, pushing more paper into her mouth. There was so much it was pressing down her throat, causing her to gag. She flailed, helpless, hooking onto her bed-sheets, pulling them down.
Unable to focus, her vision blurring, her hand clasped something – the pen used to write her notes. Gripping it tight, she clicked the nib and swung it at her attacker. It entered his neck. She was weak from the attack but it went deep enough to make him cry out. His hands came loose. Free from his grip, she spat out some of the notes, sucking in a partial breath. Able to see again, her thoughts coming together, her strength returning, she forced the pen in deeper, pushing as hard as she could, feeling his blood run down her hand. He toppled, falling on his side.
Nara stood up in disbelief at her sudden freedom, spitting out the rest of notes. She jumped onto the bed, moving as far away as possible within the confines of the small room. The second man was by his partner’s side. He removed the pen, causing blood to gush. In the ensuing confusion, the man hopelessly trying to stem the bleeding, Nara assessed the distance to the door. She would pass too close to her attackers. Even if she did sneak past she would be caught in the living room, or the stairway. Feeling the cool night breeze on her bare feet she turned around, facing the window. It was her only chance of escape. She stepped onto the ledge, climbing onto the roof.
With no electricity, there was no residual light from the streets. The city was dark, the blackout stretching across the neighbourhood like an oil slick, spreading across the valley and up distant hills, broken only by the flicker of gas lamps and candles. The more expensive properties and the government buildings had diesel generators and they dazzled: ghettoes of brightness.
She heard the remaining attacker’s hand slap down on the roof beside her and set off across the roof, bare feet against the concrete, directing herself towards her neighbours’ house, unable to distinguish between the darkness of the roofs and the darkness of the space in between. As her toes crossed the edge of her roof she pushed off, jumping as high as she could manage. Her feet spun in the air before landing on the adjacent roof. She tumbled forward, picking herself up and running again. There were heavy vibrations as her attacker landed behind her. She didn’t look back, running as fast as she could, the soles of her feet across the rough concrete, her eyes adjusting. She jumped, landing nimbly onto the next roof. She’d only taken a couple of steps when once again she felt vibrations – he was gaining. Unable to resist the urge to look back she saw his dark form only metres behind her, arms reaching out. Desperate, she turned forward, assessing the gap. It was too far. She’d never jump the distance. But she had nothing to lose.
Her feet left the roof, her body rising into the air. For a moment she was sure she’d land safely, then she began to fall, short of the next roof, hitting the side of the house. She was knocked back, tumbling down. With one hand she grabbed a window ledge. Unable to hold her weight, her fingers slipped and she fell again, landing awkwardly.
She lay still, unsure if she could move. Testing her body, lifting herself up, she felt pain but not enough to stop her. She waited, holding her breath. He hadn’t made the jump: she would’ve heard him. She peered up into the starry night sky, saw his dark form on the edge of the roof. He disappeared. He was searching for another way down.
She picked herself up, hobbling down the alley, stumbling, running, turning blindly. Her only advantage was the blackout, making her harder to follow. Reaching a main street, with no idea where she was or how far she’d run, she saw a woman entering a house. She ran towards her, pleading:
— Help me.
Nara was indecent, half
naked, covered in dirt and mud. The woman shut the door.
With a stutter the electricity came back on. Streetlights flickered, purring overhead – illuminating her position.
Greater Province of Kabul
City of Kabul
Karta-i-Seh District
Darulaman Boulevard
Same Day
Since returning from the arrest of the deserting officer, Leo had smoked for several hours in an attempt to suppress an almost unbearable sense of restlessness. Listening to the plans hatched by the two lovers hoping to embark on an impossible journey reminded him not only of his own thwarted ambitions to reach New York but also the journeys he’d made with Raisa, across the Soviet Union and into Budapest. Witnessing their determination, misguided though it was, he was forced to ask whether he’d abandoned the dream of solving Raisa’s murder. He reminded himself of the conditions he’d been placed under. He could not leave Afghanistan without bringing ruin to his daughters back home in Moscow. Anyway, the advice he’d offered to Fyodor and Ara had been the truth: to reach Pakistan posed insurmountable difficulties. The roads were controlled by Soviet forces: the air was patrolled by fighters and helicopters, while the mountains and footpaths were governed by the Afghan insurgents, who’d kill a Soviet on sight, deserter or not. In the end, the couple hadn’t even made it out f Kabul. Yet there was something noble about their failure. He could not deny the romanticism of such a venture. He thought of Elena: it was the kind of plot she might have become embroiled in had she been born here in Kabul.
Gradually, in the midst of these thoughts, he became aware of a noise, an urgent knocking on the door. He didn’t lower his pipe, lying sprawled on his bed – curious as to whether the noise was real or imagined. He had no intention of getting up, content to wait and see. There was a second attempt, even more frantic this time, accompanied by a cry. It was a woman’s voice. Leo sucked deeply on his pipe and remained perfectly still, holding the precious smoke in his lungs. He made no move to stand, or open the door, passive and motionless. The voice called out his name:
— Leo Demidov!
He exhaled, regarding the opium-smoke shapes, before scratching the side of his unshaven face and deciding the woman was real, rather than imagined. Half-heartedly he called out:
— The door is unlocked.
His voice was barely a whisper. And she hadn’t heard. She knocked again. It took an enormous effort for him to raise his voice:
— The door is unlocked.
The door flung open and a woman caked in mud and dirt ran in. She shut the door, locking it, before falling to the floor in a weeping heap. Hair was strewn across her face, ragged and wild, she looked up at Leo. It was Nara Mir: his most promising student.
Though she was less than a few paces away, her body muddy and bruised, speaking directly to him – a pitiful figure that would surely elicit sympathy from any normal man – Leo felt disconnected from her. The experience was akin to being submerged under bathwater and looking up at this woman. They belonged to different worlds: his was warm and calm while her was troubled and cold. The sensation wasn’t indifference, or callous disregard. He wanted to know what she was saying and interested to know what had happened. Feeling the rush from his last inhalation, he sucked in deeply through his nose and imagined if gods existed they would watch mankind as Leo now watched Nara, distant observers of events unravelling before them.
Leo closed his eyes.
*
Nara stopped speaking. Her mentor, the inscrutable Leo Demidov, the man she’d come to in her hour of need, had taken one look at her distressed state and fallen asleep. She hadn’t been bundled up in his arms, comforted with a promise that she would be protected. Her teacher allowed her to remain on the floor, bloodied and bruised, without an offer of help or even an expression of concern. Oddly, the lack of attention had a calming effect. By some margin she was the most competent person in the room.
She stood up, moving towards the bed, regarding her mentor with a pipe protruding from his open palm, head and body slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut. She could smell opium. She hadn’t known that he was an addict but it seemed obvious now. He was erratic, absent-minded, unreliable but it was hard when judging a foreigner not to suppose their eccentricities were due to the fact that they were from another land.
Taking control, she assessed her situation. She was inside and behind a locked door. Had the streetlights not come on she might have been able to reach the apartment without being seen. As it was, she’d been chased all the way here, unable to shake her attacker. She hurried to the window, crouching down, looking out. Expecting to see just one person she discovered there was commotion on the street: at least five or six men. She couldn’t make out their faces. An angry gathering had formed at the foot of the steps. No doubt the sight of a half-clothed woman running into a Soviet adviser’s home at night had caught the attention of the neighbours. Her attacker had been only seconds behind her: he was already with the crowd, stirring their emotions. He would not give up. They were organizing a group, a lynch mob to kill them both, just as had happened in Herat, when Afghan women and Soviet advisers alike had been executed.
Mapping her position in the city in relation to government installations, Nara tried to work out where help might come from. The Soviet Embassy was at the southern end of Darulaman Boulevard. She needed a telephone. She retreated from the window, returning to Demidov on the bed. He was out cold. Abandoning her teacher, she searched the apartment, unable to find a telephone. For a man who believed that searching a person’s belongings would reveal details of their character it was odd that he owned so little. There was less furniture in his entire apartment than her room at home. Unless panic had blinded her, there was nothing of any use. She searched the apartment again, thinking that in her haste she must have missed the telephone. On the second search she found the socket and stared at it blankly until she understood he did not own a phone. It was characteristic of him. He would not want to be contacted or bothered. Their best chance of escape had vanished. Panic swelling in her chest, she dropped to her mentor’s side, shaking him violently by the scruff of the neck. If he didn’t own a phone maybe he owned a gun.
— Wake up!
His eyes rolled like two heavy stone slabs, briefly revealing the whites. Nara ran to the kitchen, filled a dirty glass with cold water, returned to the bed and threw it in his face.
*
Leo opened his eyes and touched the spots of water on his face. He’d forgotten the events of the last few minutes and when he looked up to see his most promising student standing at the foot of the bed he wondered what she was doing in his apartment. She was in a state of some disarray. How long had she been standing there and where had she come from? He tried to remember her name but couldn’t. Enveloped in a sensation of supreme comfort, all he wanted was to sleep. Feeling his eyes close, he asked, his voice croaky:
— Why are you here?
She crouched down, close to him. He noticed that her lip was bleeding and her cheek was bruised. She’d been beaten. Her voice was shrill and loud and it annoyed him to be disturbed in this way. She said:
— They tried to kill me. They broke into my home.
Leo felt the opium pipe roll out of his hand. He tried to catch it, closing his palm, but it was too late. His student cried out:
— Don’t you understand? They’re outside! They followed me here! We’re in danger!
Leo nodded but he was not sure what he was agreeing with. Breathing deeply, he watched as Nara took the candle and placed it under his outstretched hand. His skin began to burn.
There was a sensation that his brain slowly registered as pain. A patch th. Brn began to blister. He jerked his hand away, the fastest movement he’d made for hours, studying it as a bubble of red, angry skin took shape. Cracks appeared in his fragile opium shell. He felt sick, a confusion of pain and opium-contentment, the two sensations clashing. Standing up, unsteady on his feet, he was straddling two
worlds: the opiate existence and the real world, where there was pain and grief and loss. Resting against the wall, the sickness grew stronger. He walked to the sink, running his hand under cold water. The pain came and went, then returned even stronger than before.
Leo managed to keep the nausea under control. He turned back to the room, regarding his protégée’s injury, slowly deducing the events that must have preceded her arrival. She was only partially dressed and he gestured at the few items of clothing in his possession, spread across the floor and a single chair.
— Take what you need.
While she rooted through his slim assortment of clothes, he asked:
— Who did this to you?
Before she could answer the apartment went dark. The power had been shut off.
Leo peered out over the city. There were lights on next door. His neighbours had electricity. The wires to the apartment must have been cut. He looked down at the street below. There were at least ten people outside.
— Who are they?
— I don’t know. Two men attacked me at home. I injured one. The other chased me.
— Did they speak to you?
— They’d found out I was working for the secret police.
He thought for a moment, examining the blister. Nara joined him, wearing his baggy grey trousers.
— Do you own a gun?
He shook his head, watching as Nara’s strength briefly left her, her expression seeming to collapse. For the first time she sounded helpless:
— What are we going to do?